


Wish You Were Here

by Mithen



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Post-Canon, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-03
Updated: 2010-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams are old enemies to Emperor Mollari.  But now they are perhaps all the comfort he has. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

In his dreams, he is free.

Most of the time, his dreams are of the mundane, surreal, disjointed variety: walking down the corridors of the palace naked with everyone ignoring him; finding himself a young boy in school again being lectured by his history professor; listening to opera while riding a large, pink bird. There's little meaning to them, no cosmic intent. But in all of them, there is no weight on his shoulder, no eye watching him. And so he relishes them all, even the ones where his teeth fall out or something dark and formless is chasing him across an endless field. Even when the old dream recurs, the one that fills him with terror every time: hands on his throat, a mad red eye glaring at him. The gasping panic he feels in the dream is preferable to the leaden shackles of daily life.

He's free to dream, at least.

**: : :**

G'Kar slipped into the shadows of a corner of the Emperor's study. Mr. Garibaldi warned him this was dangerous--Mr. Garibaldi's tendency to warn people of the blindingly obvious is an endearing, if annoying, habit. He had advised G'Kar to give up on communicating with Londo Mollari: "The bastard is just bluffing the delegation, G'Kar. He's not interested in talking, he's just blowing smoke." G'Kar gathered from context what "blowing smoke" meant, but he wasn't sure he agreed. Beneath the smooth words, the facile banter, he thought he caught a glimpse of--

He wasn't sure what, exactly. Desperation? Loneliness? Whatever he saw, it made it impossible for G'Kar to simply walk away. And so here he was, lurking in the shadows. He'd learned a few tricks over the intervening years that made getting access to Mollari's private rooms easier than Mr. Garibaldi might suspect. He'd remained undetected, he was sure of that.

And yet when the door opened and Mollari came in, G'Kar felt his shoulders tense as if preparing for a blow. Mollari's posture was ramrod-straight and haughty as he dismissed his guards with a wave. Then the great gilded doors closed and his shoulders sagged as if he were exhausted, as if he'd been carrying a heavy weight. His steps were slow and dragging as he went to the sideboard and lifted a heavy golden carafe. He touched the matching cup, an ornate and rococo monstrosity, then withdrew his hand. Opening a drawer in the sideboard, he pulled out instead a small, simple shot glass and put it on the counter with a small _tink_. Filling it with liquid, he took it to the desk with him and sat down in the velvet-covered chair. A long, slow sigh. Then he lifted the tiny glass and raised it toward the door, as though looking far beyond it. "To the future, old friend" he said bitterly, and drank.

Something tightened within G'Kar's chest at the way Mollari put down the glass: so carefully, so gently, his fingers curving around it. If he stood there watching much longer he would be tempted to weep, and that would be completely intolerable. So instead he stepped out of the shadows. "Mollari," he said. Pleasantries seemed superfluous at this point, after all.

Mollari started violently and put a hand to his chest, his face ashen, and G'Kar was forced to wonder for an instant if he had carried his flair for the dramatic a bit too far. "G'Kar," Mollari said, his voice mingling shock and...relief? He rallied, his lips twisting in the familiar sneer. "G'Kar," he repeated in a more normal tone. He pronounced the name, as always, with a strange relish: the "g" turned sibilant, the vowel high and nasal, the final "r" rolled in the back of his throat like red wine. "I am...not nearly drunk enough to see you," he announced, and poured himself another glass.

"I wanted to talk to you alone."

"Eh?" Mollari raised one eyebrow. "Then you shall be waiting a long time." He smiled thinly, as if at a personal joke, and drained the glass.

G'Kar frowned. This private Mollari was different from the pompous, public emperor, yes. But no less baffling. "I wanted you to know--"

"--Stop." Mollari held up an imperious hand. "I don't want to know anything, G'Kar. Do you hear me? _I don't want to know anything._ Do not waste my time with discussions of plans or strategies, for I am not at all interested." His eyes glinted and his teeth were slightly bared. The confrontational stance would have been more convincing, G'Kar pondered, if his raised hand were not shaking slightly.

"I didn't come here to discuss anything tactical with you, Mollari."

A flash of relief, obscured by a petulant scowl. "I don't know why you came here at all."

"Perhaps I missed the luxurious ambiance of your prisons."

"A return visit can be arranged, you know." Mollari seemed on steadier ground as they fell back into the familiar exchange of insults. He even flashed a sliver of a sardonic smile as he refilled the shot glass.

"I have no doubt of it, your majesty." G'Kar bowed deeply and was rewarded with a glare of intense annoyance.

"Are you here playing bodyguard for Mr. Garibaldi?"

"Perhaps I simply wanted to see you again," G'Kar said.

Mollari's fingers tightened on the shot glass and his eyes flickered. "Yes," he drawled, dragging out the "s," "I am certain you have missed me."

G'Kar chuckled slightly. "Is that so very hard to believe, Mollari?"

Mollari's mouth twisted. "Yes," he said, and the flat conviction of his tone caused the banter to falter in G'Kar's mouth.

"I wanted you to know," G'Kar started again, then stopped abruptly as he realized that he had no idea precisely what he wanted Mollari to know. There was a great deal of it, and it was all tangled up, but there seemed to be no loose end that he could tug on to unravel it into words. Ironic, he had pictured this moment many times on his way to Centauri Prime, and yet his imagination had always failed him at the key point, substituting _And then I shall tell him what I came to say_ or something equally vague. Mollari was looking at him quizzically, turning the shot glass around and around in his fingers as if he were willing to wait all night, as if he had nothing better to do than wait for a tongue-tied Narn to spit out his message.

"I wanted you to know that I trust you," he said at last. It was not precisely what he wanted Mollari to know, but it was fairly close.

The reaction was sharp and sudden. Mollari reared back in his over-embroidered chair, looking as if he wanted to spit something foul from his mouth. "_You trust me,_" he repeated, contempt dripping from the words. "That is truly rich, G'Kar. What--what have I ever done to deserve such a _precious gift_, I wonder?" His voice was disdainful, laced with fury, and so it made no sense that his eyes seemed to be filled with tears.

"Nothing, really," G'Kar said mildly, regaining his balance somewhat. "But there it is. Life is strange, is it not?"

"Indeed," Mollari muttered. "Very...very strange."

"Londo," G'Kar said, stepping forward, ignoring the startled look in the emperor's eyes at the use of his personal name. "If there is anything I can do to help--"

It happened entirely without warning. The startled look in Mollari's eyes shifted to something tinged with horror and shock. _"No--" _ he started to say, and then he lifted his hand with a sharp, jerky motion and hurled the shot glass at G'Kar.

It shattered against the wall, nowhere near G'Kar's head. Viscous alcohol oozed down the wall as the glass fragments showered to the ground in a cascade of discordant noise.

G'Kar stared at Mollari as the emperor stood up, his hands clenched. _"Damn you," _ he hissed, his eyes fixed on the broken glass, not looking at G'Kar. "Will you leave me _nothing at all?"_ He walked to where the broken shards still rocked on the floor, turning his back on G'Kar. "Go," he said with a gesture at the Narn, not looking back.

"But--"

"_Go._ You have been warned." Mollari's voice was weary. "You are not welcome here. And I do not need your help."

As the door shut behind G'Kar, he saw the emperor going to his knees to pick up the pieces on the floor.

**: : :**

The sky is a strange pale orange as Londo Mollari walks across a square paved with cobblestones. He looks up and realizes there is a palace rising on the skyline: nothing like a Centauri palace, but a delicate, slender confection in white, spires rising against the sky. He squints at it and realizes its height is an optical illusion; in reality it is much smaller.

_I am dreaming,_ he realizes, looking at the neatly-trimmed hedges in strange shapes lining the square. There is a riot of colorful flowers everywhere--oranges and red, garish splashes of brightness. The flowers in the middle of the square form the head of a stylized animal of some sort. It looks familiar. It is an Earth animal, he knows that. A cat? Or...a mouse, perhaps? Something with large, round ears, in any case.

The square is totally deserted. Not a soul there but himself. He looks down and realizes he is wearing his old ambassador's clothing in purple and gold. He smooths his hand over the velvet waistcoat, touches the golden buttons like old friends.

A breeze wanders by, carrying leaves and a sifting of golden dust in its wake. Londo lifts his eyes to follow and sees him on the other side of the square, striding closer. There is no shock of recognition, no frisson of surprise; the tall figure with its leather greatcoat flapping in the wind seems as inevitable as the sunrise, and as welcome.

Before Londo has the chance to contemplate that strange reaction, G'Kar is upon him, his arms flung out, a smile creasing his face. He looks younger, Londo realizes, young and strong, yet his eyes are deep and contemplative as the eyes of the G'Kar Londo knows better. "Mollari," he bellows cheerfully. "It worked! I was not sure it would, I confess."

"What..." Londo feels utterly at a loss. "What worked?"

Somehow it feels entirely natural when G'Kar links arms with him, nudging him into motion. "Let us walk, Mollari. Let us take in the sights."

"This is a dream," Londo says, letting himself be steered onto one of the side paths, matching his steps with his old nemesis.

"It is," G'Kar agrees. "I am dreaming right now."

"No," Londo says, "This is my dream."

G'Kar shoots him a laughingly exasperated glance. "Must you argue about the ownership even of dreams? Is this a Centauri thing?"

"What place is this? Why am I here?"

"This is an amusement park that Mr. Garibaldi took me to, with his family. 'The Happiest Place on Mars,' they call it. I chose it because it reminded me rather forcibly of you."

"Eh?"

"Oh yes," G'Kar says, looking around with a pleased expression on his face. "Garish, ostentatious, noisy, and generally fake." He glances at Londo, who is too bewildered to even respond to the insults. "And yet unexpectedly charming," he says with the air of someone making a shameful confession.

"I think I need a drink," Londo announces. He doesn't, not really; with the weight on his shoulder gone his mind is clearer and sharper than ever. But it seems the expected thing to say.

Chuckling, G'Kar stops at a stand and pours a drink of some dark, foaming liquid. He hands it to Londo, who takes a cautious sip and then wrinkles his nose. "Pfah! What is this swill?"

"I believe it's called Koh Lah. There's no alcohol allowed here, Mollari."

"No alcohol?" Londo deposits the Koh Lah in a trash can with an elaborate shudder. "I understand now. I have died in my sleep and am, at last, in Hell. I should have known that _you_ would be here to welcome me."

The chuckle transmutes into genuine laughter, rich and delighted, as G'Kar throws his head back. Londo watches him laugh and wonders when the sound became something he enjoys rather than loathes.

When the laugh finally trails off, G'Kar gives him a long look. "Let's sit," he says, steering Londo toward a bench made of some kind of plastic pretending to be wood. "You see, Mollari," he says, "I have been traveling with a telepath for a few years now, and I've picked up a few...extra skills that I thought might come in handy. I couldn't do this with most people, but..." For a moment a flash of chagrin and old pain crosses his face, "Well, our...past experiences make it slightly more possible."

"You're saying this is not a dream?"

"Of course this is a dream. I'm just saying we're dreaming it together."

Londo fidgets uncomfortably on the hard bench. "I am not at all sure I like that idea," he mutters.

"I am not here to harass you, Mollari." G'Kar's voice is tart but his eyes are strangely gentle.

"Then why _are_ you here--if you are truly here at all, which I do not for a second believe."

G'Kar looks honestly curious. "Why is it so hard to believe?"

Something twists in the space between Londo's hearts. He puts out a hand and rests it on G'Kar's knee, feeling creased leather under his fingers. G'Kar does not move away. "Because it is impossible that you and I--that you would endure my presence so, save in a dream. Would endure my touch."

The sudden pain and tenderness in G'Kar's ruby eyes proves Londo's point all over again. "Londo," he says, very low.

"It is not important," Londo says dismissively. "I am merely pleased to have a dream of you that does not involve terror and death. It is...an agreeable change." He looks down at his hand, still resting on G'Kar's knee. It is only a dream, so it is all right to leave it there, all right to rub one thumb gently across the worn leather. There is a long silence.

"You asked why I am here," G'kar says. "Why I trained for years with Lyta on the off chance I would be able to make this link. I wanted to make a place for you, a refuge, a place you could go in dreams. And I wanted to see you somewhere other than surrounded by empty opulence, trapped in your gilded cage. I wanted to see you in _this_ once more, not in the Emperor's white." He touches the satiny purple cuff of Londo's sleeve. His fingers brush Londo's wrist and Londo shivers.

"Then I shall meet you here often?"

He knows he should follow up with some quip about hell indeed, but he finds himself unable to do so. There's a strange emotion making his throat tight; he realizes it is hope only when G'Kar shakes his head and he feels it die. "I can only do this from close range, Londo. The dream-structure will live on after I am gone, but you will not have to deal with my presence here."

He tosses his head to hide his unruly reactions. "How lucky for me."

G'Kar is looking out at the ridiculous fake castle. His hand is still on Londo's sleeve. His fingers close around Londo's wrist gently, as if he were unsure of himself, which is further proof this is all a dream. "It would not be so bad," he says, "Sitting and talking with you every night."

Londo keeps the sneer in his laugh with some effort. "Thank the Great Maker none of this is real, that you are not real."

G'Kar frowns as if Londo has hurt him somehow. "Why is that?"

Londo tries to answer, but his voice is lost somewhere in his hammering pulse. _If it is a dream, there is no shame in this_, he thinks, and sees G'Kar's eyes widen as he leans in close, brings his mouth to his enemy's.

_This is a dream, so he cannot despise me for my weakness_ he reminds himself as he presses closer, feels dry lips against his own. _One cannot be rejected by a dream._ But it feels too awkward and fumbling to be unreal, and he almost despairs.

Then G'Kar makes a small, hungry sound, guttural, almost angry, and drags him closer. Londo ends up flat on his back on the silly plastic log-bench, G'Kar's hands gripping his shoulders painfully--_I will be bruised there tomorrow_, he thinks, and then remembers that he won't. The kiss trembles close to violence for a moment, close to the old dream, but then G'Kar whispers his name and there is no loathing in his voice, just surprise and a bittersweet yearning.

There is leather under his hands, and then skin, and the dream goes on far past what Londo Mollari has ever deserved, into something like happiness

until he wakes up alone.

The next morning the Centauri guards usher Garibaldi and G'Kar off-planet. Emperor Mollari watches them go from his balcony.

G'Kar does not turn around once.

**: : :**

Londo Mollari is preparing for bed. He pours himself a last drink and lifts it to absent friends. The dream has recurred five times since that night: the winding paths, the brilliant flowers, the foolish fake castle.

The grounds are always empty. Londo wanders them alone.

He finishes his drink and touches the rectangle of paper pinned to a cabinet. It arrived a week ago, a postcard with a white palace, spires lifted against a pale orange sky. On the back, unsigned, a message in a meticulous hand: _Wish you were here._

He runs his finger down the white parapets like a caress.

Perhaps tonight the older dream will come: hands on his neck, scarlet eyes staring into his, the breath stopped in his throat. If it does, he knows there will be none of the old terror, none of the fear and anguish, only resolution and a strange sort of peace.

In his dreams, he is free.


End file.
